


Blood Roses

by Nativeinvader



Category: The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24623494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nativeinvader/pseuds/Nativeinvader
Summary: For all his seeming omnipotence in Panem, President Snow knew he wouldn't live forever. Therefore, he needed to groom a successor ....
Relationships: Alma Coin/Coriolanus Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

Prologue: The Game Begins

Victory Tour of the 45th Annual Hunger Games

It's her first time at the Presidential Palace.  
Bu she's determined it won't be her last.

Her father's name may have opened the door – how typical of him, to manage to continue helping her even after his death – but it's she who is determined to walk through that door and into something better. She's young, she knows (she's just turned 25) but it's never too early to get a start as a power player on the political scene, and that's exactly what she intends to do.

She knows what the rest of Panem sees when they look at the citizens of the Capitol: the ridiculous outfits, the extreme plastic surgeries, the exaggerated accents. And in many ways, yes, that's the typical Capitol citizen, but there is another class of the elite, operating somewhat more … behind the scenes. Those of strength and intelligence, those who don't mind a little fun and frivolity but don't wallow it. The nation's thinkers and planners and game makers, who keep the machine of government humming and running smooth.  
She knows which group she belongs in.

The evening is going as expected. Her mother fusses at her for not wearing a more elaborate outfit or "at least dyeing your hair a celebratory shade darling, really…"  
She knows her outfit is subdued, especially by Capitol standards; the dress is sleek and black, and only a few jewels adorn her bare skin. er Her makeup is understated, though she did use something that she hopes will make what her mother helpfully refers to as her "drab gray eyes" look blue. Her hair she has put up in a simple style, opting to keep it its natural red. Her hair is one of the few things she's vain about, and she doesn't like to alter it.

Amidst the elaborate gowns and suits and all the bright colors, everyone demanding the most attention from their neighbors, she knows that she's the one that stands out the most.

And by the end of the evening, her mother is praising her "fashion strategy."

It's not enough. A triumph of wardrobe is not enough for her.

But it's a start.

The presidential welcome music sounds, and they all look up. President Snow stands above them. He just turned 45 this year, and his brown hair and beard bear the faintest shades of white. The white rose is in his lapel, as always. She watches, sees the smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and wonders what he is thinking.

What she wouldn't give to know what the most powerful man in the country is really thinking…

It takes her a minute to realize his gaze is resting on her. She feels her heart beat faster, in fear, or excitement or both, and she tilts her chin up, meets his gaze evenly, gives him her most impassive expression. A different sort of smile catches at the corners of his mouth, and then they are all toasting the Victor, and before she knows it, the evening is at end.

He might just have one of his people tracking down her records right now. In fact, she hopes he is.  
Because then he'll learn not only who her father is, but who she is, and what she can do. Her scores and early graduation from the most prestigious political academy in the Capitol have to count for something…

He has been collecting them, she knows, to stay in touch with the pulse of the times, the bright young minds of the Capitol, employing them as speech writers, directors, game makers, and she may be the youngest yet, but she wants to be part of that group.

She wants to do things, she wants to change things. She wants to make history.

She wants nothing more than to be his protégé. And nothing less than to be his successor.

She wants to hold this country in the palm of her hand.

Author's Note: In the books and on the wikis, it states that Coin is in her mid-50s, and Snow is about 75. So estimating her age to be about 55, that puts 20 years between them, which is why she's 25 and he's 45 here


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One: The Tributes

She's hasn't been summoned.  
It's been three weeks – three whole weeks! – and she hasn't been summoned, or tailed, or even brought in for questioning! She hasn't gotten any closer to her goals, she hasn't gotten any closer to the President, and she hasn't gotten any closer to impressing anyone of any importance. There is only one conclusion, and she doesn't like to admit it to herself, but it is rapidly becoming apparent.

She's not important enough to get noticed. She vastly overestimated the significance of a single look. She's simply not worthy of his attention.  
If she were truly a vain, foolish Capitol girl, she might just sit and pout.

Luckily, she is a resourceful young woman, and that means having contingency plans.

And her contingency plan is about to kick in.

Although the Hunger Games are so often the focus of the Capitol's political and social life, there are other events that occasionally take center stage. And this year, it's a presentation of the recent top graduates from the political academy. And of course she's one of them. And to demonstrate what they've learned, there is to be a debate.  
Of course, since it's never completely out of their minds, this debate will be about the Hunger Games.

It's an old song, she knows. Every once in a while, someone makes noise about wanting to end the Games, someone questions their importance. It's usually a weak, half-hearted sort of protest, the kind of thing very few people disappear over. And when students or former students are invited to debate, most of them go the safe route, and argue strongly in favor of the Games, hoping to curry favor with the political elite.

But she's got an entirely different strategy…

After all, you don't get noticed by going along with the crowd.

And quite aside from that, she's never liked the Games much anyway. They make her feel … well, she doesn't know what exactly, but it's not pleasant. And she doesn't like dealing with uncertain emotions.

She prepares quickly, but still considers her appearance. Hair up – a ponytail? No, that'll make her look like a little girl. A bun or something, a twist at the nape of the neck, that will do. Minimal make up. And the dress.

Nothing bright. Navy. Blue. Black. Gray.

She decides on the navy, which compliments her figure without advertising it. She wants to be noticed for her mind, not her body.  
And finally, she examines her face in the mirror. She practices what she calls her "impassive expression" and what her father teasingly referred to as her "Stone face" when she was growing up. She's been told she's hard to read; it's no accident. When her mother complains that she's taciturn, she takes it as a compliment, though of course it's not meant that way.

She doesn't want anyone to know what she is really thinking.

"Incoming message," the computer informs her, and she turns the view screen, where her mother's face pops up.

"Darling, you look … appropriate." Her mother prefers brighter hues.

"Thanks."

"Oh, you know I didn't mean it like that." She feels the familiar pinprick of guilt. Her mother may get on her nerves sometimes, but she means well.  
"I know."

"Good luck today. Not that you need it." Her father always used to say that her mother had the sweetest smile, and it's true. Her mother's face is open, not guarded like her own. She couldn't lie to save her life. "I'm proud of you. Your father would be proud too."

"Thank you mom. Really."

"You nervous?"

"Never."

"Hm. Be careful." That's how she usually ends their conversations. Her mother would tell her "be careful" if she so much as went for a strong around the block.  
"Of course," she lies easily and ends the call.

She loves her mother, but that doesn't she needs to know everything. She worries enough as it is.

You don't get noticed by being careful.

So now it's her second time at the presidential palace.

She and her fellow graduates – they are "tributes" here, as much as any child in the arena. It may be a (slightly) less deadly form of competition, but they are fighting for their political survival, fighting not to fade into obscurity or frivolity, and in the end, only one of them can claim the real prize.

If President Snow was looking for a direct successor, there's always his daughter, of course. Only a young woman of 15 now, but it's not as though he needs an immediate replacement. But the scuttlebutt has been that he has already considered and discounted the possibility of her taking over for him.

Alma can think of several reasons for this, not among the least of which is that he wants to maintain some semblance of the pseudo-democracy of Panem and has no desire to establish a dynasty (and if he did want to establish a dynasty, he probably would have remarried and had more children after his wife died). His daughter did not attend the political academy, as she would have done if he wanted her to. From the little she knows of the girl, she gets the sense that her aspirations do not extend beyond coveting the latest fashions and enjoying all the privileges that come from being the President's daughter. She's no threat, no competition.

Her classmates, on the other hand, may prove problematic.

She's maintained pseudo-friendships with most of them, if only to size them up. Some are smart. Others are just arrogant and lucky and have the right pedigrees. A few of the men take it as a personal insult that she never accepted their romantic overtures (which it is).

She's almost certain not a one of them will have the courage, must less the skill, to make the arguments she's going to make.

She can't be the only one comparing this to the Arena, she knows. For starters, only 12 of the graduates have been selected to debate. That can't be a coincidence. They each have their own podium, on the ground, while President Snow and other important political leaders watch from above.

Someday, she'll be the one watching from on high…

But in order to achieve that, she needs to focus on the here and now.

When the arguments begin and the questions are poised, she lets the other take the lead, content to wait until she hears a question that suits her.  
"Can anyone come up with reasons why we should discontinue the Games?" The moderator asks.

This is soft scattering of chuckles, as if this idea is so ridiculous as to be laughable.

"I can." She says it calmly, loudly, and without a trace of a tremor in her voice.  
But when everyone turns and stares at her, she feels her pulse begin to quicken.

She resists the urge to lower her gaze, shift her feet, or clear her throat.

"Such as?"

Suddenly, she feels like an Avox, robbed of speech. Because it's not the moderator asking the question.  
It's President Snow himself.

She swallows and looks upward. Sometimes, she thinks she imagined him making eye contact with her before, those few weeks ago, but there's no mistaking how his gaze is leveled at her now. His eyes are light blue and his expression is deceptively mild, but she has no doubt that if he doesn't like her answer, there's more than her political career on the line.

"I think the Games actually encourage dissent from the Districts, sir." Don't shake. Don't shake. She keeps her eyes on his.

"Really?" His tone is almost gentle. "And yet so many seem to take the opposite view. The Games are what discourage the Districts from … agitating."

She considers making a "clever" comeback about the herd mentality, but looking into his eyes, she's quite convinced to play it straight. "I respectfully disagree, sir. The Games breed resentment and emphasize the distance between the citizens of the Capitol and the rest of the country."

A smile breaks out on his face, which she finds strangely disarming. "I can concede to your first point, but as to your second, I hardly think emphasizing the difference between the Capitol and the Districts is a bad thing." Another smattering of laughter, more nervous this time.

"Then it's strange that in your last speech you emphasized unity," she fires back at him boldly. "I seem to recall you discussing at length how we were one people, one voice, united by the common cause of advancing the power and glory of Panem … no matter where in this great nation we happened to be born."

Several people around her gasp at her audacity, but she pays them no mind. Her heart is beating very fast and seems to have moved from her chest to somewhere around the vicinity of her throat. He looks … amused with her, but she has no idea what that means, no idea what will happen next. She's doing her best to maintain her impassive expression, but it's not confidence that keeps her eyes locked on his.

She's fairly certain she couldn't tear her gaze away if she tried.

"That is not precisely what I meant, Miss …?" He's playing with her now. He knows her name, of course he does. But she can play too.  
"Stone. Alma Stone."*

"Miss Stone," he continues smoothly. "But if that was the impression you got from my speech, perhaps I need to work on being clearer."

If there's a hint of a threat in his voice, she pays it no mind. "Or maybe you need a new speech writer."

"Are you volunteering?"

She lowers her gaze then, in parody of modesty that she knows he'll see right through.

"If you'll have me. I would be honored … sir." She looks back up at him, her smirk fading. Something about him, the way he looks at her … her breath catches. She should be afraid, but she's not. She feels only … exhilarated.

"I'll consider that, Miss Stone." She can't tell if she serious or not. "Now, back to the Games … what would you propose, instead?"  
"Excuse me?"

"You argue that we should put an end to the Games. Now, your reasons for that may not be entirely sound, but as we are running out of time, I should like to know, what do you think should take their place? As you are well aware, a great deal of the country's social and cultural life center on the Hunger Games. Eliminating them would leave a significant void. So what do you propose to fill that void?"

For the first time, she falters. "Well, I … I mean, I don't propose eliminating them, exactly."

"Oh you don't?" His tone is subtly mocking now. "I must have misunderstood you earlier." A few people snicker.  
She takes a deep breath. "I just don't think anyone should die."

His expression is difficult to read. "Interesting. And how would that work, exactly?"

He keeps his eyes on her and she continues to talk. Tributes could be eliminated, she tells them, in simulated combat and other scenarios. Alternatively or in conjunction with that, tributes could be voted off by viewers of the Games or even by each other. The Games are already as much a popularity contest as anything else, and the alliances and intrigues and backstabbing are half the "fun," so why not play up that aspect of it, as well as make more interactive?

When she finishes, she's quiet breathless, and as the echo of her voice fades, complete silence seems to fill the cavernous space. He hasn't stopped looking at her, not this whole time, and she can't tell from his expression if he's duly impressed with or she's just committed political suicide (or actual suicide!) and the moment seems to stretch on forever….

"It's an interesting concept, I'll grant you that." His words tell her nothing. He nods to the moderator, and before she knows it, the debate is at end.

Afterwards, she assembles with her fellow "tributes" in the banquet hall. She wants to look like the picture of calm, but that's hard to pull that off when her stomach is in knots and she can't eat a thing. A voice in her head that sounds an awful lot like her mother asks her what on earth she was thinking, and she can't come up with a satisfactory answer.  
When one of Snow's personal security guards taps her own the shoulder, she nearly jumps out of her skin.

The man speaks to her quietly, but still loud enough for those around her to hear. "The President would like to speak with you."

She looks back, to find expressions ranging from sympathetic to smug. She can only hope her own face betrays no emotions.

"Nice knowing you, Alma," someone calls out, as she follows the guard. She recognizes the voice of Gaius Aquinas, who stopped asking her out on dates after three refusals. The guard leads her through a set of doors, and they close on her before she can think of a clever comeback.

"Miss Stone." The President smiles at her, showing his teeth. It makes him look feral, predatory. Like a snake about to strike. Is it terror she feels, or triumph at having so thoroughly captured his attention? She can't be sure. He gestures elegantly. "Please, sit."

"I prefer to stand … if you don't mind, sir." The rather morbid thought occurs to her that she'd rather die on her feet, and she can't quite manage to brush it aside. Oh god, I've overplayed my hand. 

"Very well. I must say, Miss Stone, you certainly made an impression today."

It takes her a minute to find her voice. "Is that a good or a bad thing?"

"Well that depends. Did you really mean the things you said?"

She swallows. "Well, sir, that depends."

"Indeed? On what?"

"On what answer is the least likely to get me killed."

He chuckles. "And here I thought you had no fear."

"I'm not afraid." I'm terrified. "But I would very much like to continue breathing."

"Oh my," he says softly. "You are rather remarkable, aren't you?"

And it's at this, after everything, that her eyes drop, and she grows red. She cannot believe herself, cannot understand the warmth she feels in her face – with her life quite possibly literally on the line, how can a simple compliment undo her composure? She is Alma Stone. She's going to run this country some day!

She does not … blush!

"Oh, now I've embarrassed you." It takes everything in her to meet his eyes again.

"Not at all … sir."

"You're not a very good liar, my dear. Yet. Do you know, I think you have a great deal of potential, even if some of your ideas are a bit … misguided." The emphasis he puts on the last word almost makes her shiver. "I believe we have a position in the Ministry of Affairs that would suit you nicely."

"You're offering me a job?"

He smirks at her. "Isn't that what you came here for?"

"Yes, but I didn't think …" She stammers … "I mean, I would never presume … that I would be given the honor of …"

"Don't lie." His voice is suddenly much sharper. "Not to me, not anymore. Of course you presumed. It's your presumption that got you this far. Just be careful you don't overreach yourself. Will you accept the position?"

"Of course," she manages to get out, feeling positively giddy. Is this really happening?

"Good. Your belongings will be moved into the mansion."

"What?" She blinks. "Oh, of course." Members of the political staff live in the presidential palace as well as working there. Space is hardly an issue, since the place is big enough to get lost in. "I look forward to…" she trails off, still disbelieving and not knowing how to finish.

"I seem to have rendered you speechless, Miss Stone. I have the feeling that is something of an accomplishment." He gives her what might pass for an indulgent smile. "Run along now."

She's still too ecstatic to bristle at the slight condescension in his tone. She walks away, practically floating out of the room, but at the door, she turns.

"Sir?"

"Yes?" He does not look up. He's already dismissed her.

"Thank you." 

The sincerity in her voice recaptures his attention, however briefly.

"Oh, don't thank me yet. You have a great deal of work ahead of you. I hope you are equal to the task."

She tilts her chin up. "I am." You're going to wonder what you ever did without me. I'm going to make myself indispensable!  
"We shall see."

And after the bodyguard lets her out, and she has a precious moment alone, the only way she keeps herself from jumping up and down and squealing with glee is by reminding herself that it is not a dignified way for the future president of Panem to behave.

*This her "maiden name" (remember, in the movie Prim says she had husband … more on that later).


End file.
